Down the Road
by Trapped in Icy Flame
Summary: A short little drabble about Sam and what he would do for his brother
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, they wouldn't be brothers.

This is dedicated to those who say I can't write angst (even though really I do totally suck)

Down the Road

They had wanted him. They had always wanted him. They had never been able to get to them. There had always been someone (a short, blond, ethereally beautiful person) standing between them and him. His mother had been innocent of all sins, and ignorant of all evil, but she had known, instantly that there was someone, _something_, in her child's room. She had sacrificed her life, and died a slow and painful death, to save a child that she had never known. The second person to die for him directly (although many others had been sacrificed for him, for a boy that they had never known) had been the first woman that he truly loved. She was all that was good and beautiful in the world, and he would have died to ensure that the evil never touched her. She died instead. He knew that she wouldn't have, not if she'd told the _creature_ that wanted him where he was, the demon wanted him too much to not offer a chance an oath. She could have saved herself, he wished (more then anything) that she had, and the demon would have kept its oath. When he had been awoken by her blood it had shattered them. He would have let the fire consume him, he would have let the monster win, but his third protector (his last chance for salvation) had saved him, for the second time from the all-consuming heat.

Now the third guardian, the first person he had ever loved, the only person that he had never not loved, was laying on the bed across from him. He had taken a hit that was meant for Sam. It would have killed him, it almost killed Dean. The monster had wanted him, wanted whatever it was that ran like poison through his veins. Wanted his 'light' he said. Sam had refused the demon's offer, his blood for his life, he would rather die then give the demon what he wanted. The demon hadn't been cunning, not like the others. He had operated on the principal that demons run on, anything to save yourself, he hadn't thought like a human. If he had taken Dean Sam would have slit his own wrists to have him free and unharmed. But instead he had threatened Sam and forgotten Dean, forgotten that the brothers would die for each other, forgotten that the boys would kill anyone that had touched their brother. Dean had jumped in front of the angered demon, and Sam had filled the creature with every type of bullet imaginable. It had been too late. The creature had broken five of Dean's ribs and punctured his lung. It had taken them seven hours in surgery to repair his lung, and Dean had been confined to bed rest for a month.

He had lasted a week before being irritable (Sam had thought it would take half that time) and Sam had taken to drugging the water he forced Dean to drink, so that his brother would rest. He looked at his brother, dragged into this world of strife and discord by himself, and the guilt overwhelmed him. He knew now that Dean would die first, that he would never let anything bad happen, and instead of being reassured he felt an overwhelming surge of dread. Sam had confiscated the long and lethal knife after the third time Dean had threatened to kill him, just so he could leave the room, and he held it contemplatively in his hands. He ran a finger over the sharp edge and drawing back when the slender line of red appeared on his finger.

He didn't fear pain, hadn't since his father had started training him. Not since he began going to bed with bruises and cuts, not since he had first popped a dislocated bone in place, not since he had learned how to set a broken bone while on the road. He didn't fear hell, he was going there anyway, damned for eternity for the sins he had committed to save others, for never in God's eyes is a sin justified, and he was not repentant. He feared being alone, being without his brother, his first and last protector, for the first time in his life. He feared for his brother, and what the guilt of knowing that he couldn't save Sam from everything, that he couldn't save Sam from himself, would do to him. But more then anything he feared losing Dean, of having to be the strong one for once, of having the third die for him. Dean always had been stronger, losing Sam wouldn't break him, not the way losing Dean would shatter Sam.

He got up and silently (he didn't remember when he had stopped making noise as he walked, didn't remember ever doing it) padded over to his brothers bed. He pulled up the covers and laid a quick kiss on the innocently sleeping Dean. This would be the last time he saw him, for one as good as Dean would not be allowed into hell, one who shone as brightly with good would have no choice but to join those who had already died for Sam.

He remembered being told by his older brother 'Down the road, not across the street. People who slit their wrists across don't really want to die'. He followed this advice, the last advice he would ever follow, and a tear slipped down his cheek (not from the pain, pain had never made him cry, he wept for the loss of his beacon, and the pain he would cause) as he made the first cut. Quickly, before he lost all feeling in his hand he slit his other wrist, and closed his eyes to die. He never saw Dean opening his.


	2. I wont

Authors note: Its short I know, But I wasn't going to do a chapter two anyway, so its better then what I had planned right?

I won't

"I won't say I'm sorry, because I'm not." He paused briefly to look at his younger brother. "I won't. And I won't say I was wrong, either, because I wasn't."

He was angry now, and his normally carefree blue eyes turned molten mercury. He spun on his heel and opened his mouth, but his younger brother cut him off. "I know you're angry. I get that. But it was my choice to make." He turned his gentle, moss green eyes to meet the quicksilver ones of his brother and winced away before defiantly locking his eyes on his brother's again. Dean without taking his eyes off Sam swung his fist at his younger brother's jaw. It connected with a force that jerked Sam's head to the side and pushed him two steps back.

Swearing Sam rubbed his jaw. "What the hell?"

"You stupid little fuck." Dean's eyes blazed. "You selfish bastard." He swung his leg out low, taking Sam unaware and forcing Sam's foot out of its comfortable position under him. When Sam tried to right himself Dean straddled his little brother. He placed his hand gently, but firmly, and filled with a silent threat on his airway. "Don't move a muscle. Don't say a fucking word, just… listen."

Sam moved his legs, almost imperceptibly, and immediately felt the hand on his neck constrict. He gasped for breath and looked into his brother's hardened face, slowly he moved his legs back to their original position. The hand on his neck relaxed as soon as his legs were out of a potentially threatening position.

"It was your choice to go to Stanford. To abandon your family, and your responsibility for a chance at normalcy. It was your choice to come back with me and find Dad, to find the monster that killed Mom and Jessica. But the _second _you made that choice your life stopped being your choice and it became _my_ responsibility." Dean took his free hand and began to take off his shirt. When he needed to toss the shirt off his other arm he quickly switched hands. There was no more then a second in which there wasn't a hand on Sam's neck. For the first time in four years Sam took the time to examine his brother's chest. There were more scars than he remembered; there was once a time when he knew all his older brother's scars. Dean took his free hand and pointed to a tiny oval of marred, red flesh.

"This was the first scar I ever got, I was four years old and I pulled you from the fire, and ember fell on me.: He pointed to another set of scars. "These I got when I pushed you out of the path of a demon when I was ten." He pointed to another, then another until he had pointed to almost every scar on his chest, then he pointed to three perfect circles on his chest, right above his heart. "I got these from you, because I valued my responsibility to protect you more then my responsibility to protect myself. I gave you that fucking gun and let you shoot me with it. You thought that it was loaded, you thought it would _kill_ me, and you pulled the fucking trigger anyway." Deans hand clenched involuntarily. "I almost wish it had been loaded."

For the first time since Dean had started his rant Sam opened his mouth. "Don't give me that Bullshit about it not being you Sammy. Because it was, somewhere inside of you that was what you really think, what you really want. Because if it wasn't you wouldn't have said it, you wouldn't have done it. You wouldn't do it with your inhibitions still intact, but the fact is that its what you feel, somewhere."

Dean took his hand off Sam's throat and slowly stood up. Once he was completely off of him and Sam had managed to stand up be snapped.

"Don't you get it? That's _why_ I had to do it." His eyes met Dean's and held, there was a plea in them that he couldn't put into words. "I couldn't let it happen to you too." His eyes slowly filled. "I didn't want to lose you like I did them." They began to overflow, but Sam wasn't conscience of the salty liquid flowing down his face. Dean however was. He lifted a hand, probably to wipe the tears off, but he let it drop again. His face remained hard as the ice in his blue eyes started to melt. He reached out again to pull Sam into an awkward hug. When his much taller brother wrapped his arms around him and nuzzled his head into the crook of Dean's neck, Dean remembered that Sam had always been more emotional, more touchy-feeling then he had. He began to stiffly pat the head burrowed into his neck.

If it were anyone but his already damaged brother Dean would have probably said something sharp and witty and edging toward cruel. But he had never been able to truly hurt his brother, so he continued to silently pat his head. He didn't actually say anything. He was no good at comforting people and he avoided doing that which he couldn't do well most of the time. He felt Sam's tears stop, but his brother didn't lift his head.

When Sam finally lifted his head a blush matching his red-rimmed eyes stained his cheeks. "I'm sorry about that." His voice was soft and he spoke haltingly.

Dean sighed. He didn't want to do this, he hated times like this, hated feeling like an incompetent, bumbling fool. But he would hate himself more if he let Sam go on thinking that he was responsible for their Mother's death.

He took a deep breath and began. "Look, it's fine. But you need to understand. It's not your fault-" Sam opened his mouth to protest. "It's not! They want you. And they are drawn to you, but saying that _that _is your fault is like saying that it is the victim's fault that they were raped." He saw Sam open his mouth again and once again cut him off. "Look, when you were ten, Dad and I caught a demon sneaking into your room. It was weak, even then, you could have killed it." Dean paused to take in Sam's glare, he liked the fire that was back in his eyes. "It was probably the only demon that I've ever had beg me. It didn't beg for its life, though, I think it knew that I would never let it go, it begged to _look _at you." He paused again and swallowed hard. "We hit him, but he still begged." He didn't notice his switch from the it to the he when talking about the demon, but his brother didn't miss it. "So finally we asked him why. He said, 'Because he is as close to the sun as we can get.'" He paused to chuckle mirthlessly. "I had no idea what that meant but Dad did, and he made the demon drink holy water." Both of them winced. Making a Demon drink holy water was one of the cruelest ways to kill them, akin to forcing liquid mercury down a humans throat.

"I asked Dad what it meant. He told me not to worry about it. So I dropped it, like a good little soldier." Sam winced when Dean's voice turned harsh. "I noticed, though, that the nasties just kept coming for you. So I snuck into Dad's bad and got the journal."

He went to get it then and as he was walking back he flipped it open to one of the pages that Sam had never been allowed to see and waited for Sam to realize what it said. When he had processed it, two words escaped his mouth before he crumpled lifelessly to the floor. "Oh shit."

"I told you we were chosen." Sam said when he regained conscienceless.

"I know. Stupid college boy always has to be right."

"You do realize that, that whole sentence up there was an oxymoron?"

Dean grinned and punched his brother, gently, in the arm. "Shut up Miss Cleo." Dean laughed again at Sam's glare and dodged the playful swing that he attempted to throw.


End file.
